


Pretending the Sun Will Not Rise

by blxetack



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Sad Ending, angsty fluff, depends how emotionally invested you get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blxetack/pseuds/blxetack
Summary: Hal is desperate for his usual distraction, Hotspur works the bar.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> For Alli, thanks for nagging me to write this. Hope this lives up to your expectations. Or better. 
> 
> This was meant to be a comedy, but apparently I only write really sad things. Hope no one's feels get too hurt. The lyrics and title of this fic come from Yellowcard's 'Ocean Avenue'; I thought it was fitting. I also wrote most this late at night when the real inspiration hits came about, if there are any weird references, that's why.

_There's a place on the corner of Cherry Street_

_We would walk on the beach in our bare feet_

_We were both eighteen and it felt so right_

_Sleeping all day, staying up all night._

 

I thought Elizabeth Court was a rather mundane name for an apartment block near the beach, but there was a promising bar down the road and the pale beige brickwork reminded me of a simpler time, before minimalist concrete high-rises became popular in big cities. I needed somewhere to stay for my first year doing piss-all with my life and my father had been more than willing to supply me with one of the nicer apartments, nothing close to what most people my age could afford. But I wanted something cheap, something dingy and old where people _my own age_ would live. Not people like my father, big company CEO's willing to toss all the money they had just because they could.

The place was small, the bedroom area with only enough room for a bed, desk, and some extra floor space in between, while the kitchen was crammed into the corner by the door, next to the bathroom. The walls were painted baby-boy blue with dark wooden skirting boards that didn't work at all. My father had grunted approval when he saw the newspaper ad. Not approval as in, 'what a wonderful place to live', but approval as in, 'if it gets you out of my house'.

Dear Henry had offered to help me move in, but I was eighteen and didn't want my vapid father tyring to coddle me anymore. I jogged up the stairs and unlocked the off-white door with the golden key the landlord handed over last week. I opened the window, watching the moving van pull up on the curb outside, they would be here in a few minutes with the furnishings I needed and then I could decorate as I pleased. I had plans for some band posters and obscure art, and I would be hitting up the Blue Dog tomorrow to make the baby-blue bearable.

After a long time of resisting my father's pressure to do something 'useful' with my life, having my own place and my own moving van people with the promise of a bar tonight and the poster shop tomorrow, felt like a deep breath.

\+ + +

The sun had buried itself in the waves long ago and I was preparing to traverse the bar scene alone. I thought I would be okay, I was comfortable around people, they were only other beings with other brains, easy to manipulate and charm. This alone, would get me someone to spend the night with.

The bar down the street from Elizabeth Court was an obvious gay bar. A rainbow pride flag hung in the front window while Hayley Kiyoko and Troye Sivan played through the speakers. The veranda out front held tables circled with strangers laughing and kissing. I made a beeline for the bar. I needed to fill my system with some alcohol, take the jagged edge off the less charismatic version of myself.

'Two shots of Vodka, please,' I asked, the bartender nodded in response but I forgot him as I noticed his co-worker walk the length of the bar, serving two cocktails to a couple of women. The stranger had a sure smile and a cocky edge to his gait; I wanted to vault the bar and run a hand through his hair or down his arm or anywhere he would let me.

The distraction of two Vodka shots ensured I forgot him, I downed them both and within seconds was ordering two more. Praying for the alcohol to take me and make me someone else for a little while. My father could be disappointed, all I craved was a distraction from myself: bitter, broken me. I did have a plan. One could not walk through life without carefully curating each step and I knew that if I carried on this way enough press would be generated to make me more famous than my old man. Unless I died of liver failure or 'fell' off an overpass. A tragic, drunken accident.

I must have started looking like a real sad sod, because Gorgeous Bartender was in my face with his sure smile. 'Look like you could do with a little more,' he said. 'Can I get you anything?'

'A tequila sunrise?'

From afar, he was just tall, dark, and handsome, but up close he was beautiful - his hair fell down either side of his face to his cheekbones, an even square frame for this grey eyes. His lips, pale pink, said, 'Of course.'

'When do you get off, maybe I can help you?' I fired, taking my chance because _how_ could I walk away from a man like this?

The bartender smirked. 'Sure, midnight good?'

'Of course,’ I responded, 'you look like you have a nice name too.'

'Harry, I get called Hotspur, it's a nickname of sorts.'

'I am Harry too', I replied, 'but most call me Hal.'

He winked. 'Stick around till midnight.'

I flirted with everyone who approached me, eyeing Hotspur with meaning when my subjects were not paying attention. Between flirting, I watched Hotspur work the bar. He walked back and forth, mixing drinks, offering smiles and polite conversation. He'd drift back over, ask me if I wanted something else, slide me another Cruiser and ask me about myself.

'Where'd you grow up? What do you do with yourself? What brings you here? Sure that's not too many drinks?'

'Dover Heights. Fuck all. To get trashed before bed. No.'

\+ + +

A midnight, Hotspur went out the back to sign off and say goodbye to everyone. I waited outside on the footpath, a lit cigarette dangling from my lips, an attempt to make the high better. Hotspur wished the security guard good night on his way out and took out his own pack of cigarettes.

'Ohh, but you're so pretty,' I whined, waving mine at him and shaking my head.

'You can, but I can't?' He asked, eyebrows wrinkling together as he lit his cigarette and took a drag.

'You are prettier than I am. You're not suited for lung cancer.'

He shook his head. 'You're a bit trashed, how 'bout I take you home instead?'

'"A bit",' I said with air quotes, 'oh that's cute. I'm majorly trashed, does that mean we can go back to yours?' I winked.

'I'm not taking advantage, Hal.'

'Humour me with a date at least,' I supplied. I couldn't let him go. I wanted him to stay, there were promises in his words and his eyes were examining me like I was a puzzle he didn't know how to put back together. We looked at each other.

'Come on,' he murmured, gesturing down the street with his head.

I followed him to the foreshore across the road. We didn't speak for a while, just breathed out smoke to fill the space between us as we walked the path overlooking the rocks and the ocean. The bricks opened into a lookout and he stopped to stub out his cigarette on the railing and drop it onto the terracotta patterm. I put mine out and let it fall to his.

'Come on', he said again and continued to the steps nearby. As he walked down, he put his right hand out behind him. I brushed my fingers against his. It wasn't permanent and strong like holding hands, but it was human contact I hadn't considered would ever be so refreshing. Perhaps I had been touch starved for too long.

We slipped off our shoes when we hit the sand. I'd been to my choice of beaches and some I'd visited at night, but there'd always been a bonfire somewhere. This was a tad more magical. The water had transformed to black with the sky and stretched into an endless abyss where ocean nor sky were distinguishable. There was no moon and the sand glowed in the lights from the street. Hotspur was a shadow beside me. An outline I could not make sense of from here, but when I reached out and found his arm, I mapped his arm with my fingers and linked them with his.

''And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne, if you like making out at midnight, in the dunces of the cape,'' Hotspur sang, spilling smoky breath into my ear.

'It is 'making _love_ at midnight', you idiot,' I said, shouldering him.

He laughed, 'Aw, want me to sing the music too? I can't even pull out my best moves? I thought you wanted a date!'

'Not with Rupert Holmes.' I smiled at him. I hoped he could sense it in the dark, in my tone.

He relinquished my hand to chase the waves and kicked a spray of water in my direction. I turned away with a shocked gasp and grabbed for his arm again, pretending to push him into the water and pulling him to me before gravity took him. He slung an arm around my shoulder to steady himself.

‘Feisty.’

‘Wait until I get you alone later,’ I grinned and leaned in, bringing our foreheads together. He leaned in a little bit, his lips close, not touching. I leant forward a little more.

He pulled away and I could her the smile when he grabbed my hand and said, ‘If that's the best you got, we to get you sobered up.’

\+ + +

My head started to clear in increments after my second bottle of water and more of the greasy Maccas burger Hotspur had put before me.

'You do this every night?' Hotspur questioned.

'What else would I do with my time? Enjoy existence without the tang of intoxication?' I said in lieu of response.

'Whatever, eat your burger,’ Hotspur ordered.

I made my way through the triple cheese burger, admiring Hotspur's profile as he looked out the window. He had a bump on the bridge of his nose. I wanted to run my finger along it. Or my tongue. I was not fussed about which one.

When the burger was no more, Hotspur looked me up and down before standing, fondness lurked behind his irises and his lips moved in appreciation.

When we left the restaurant, I pulled out a cigarette, dangled it between my lips and handed one to Hotspur before lighting my own.

'How about you light mine too, you drunk idiot,’ he fired.

'Only babies cry,' I retorted, but I took out my lighter and moved closer to light his cigarette.

'You stink of alcohol,’ Hotspur moaned, but he grabbed my wrist, took a drag of his cigarette and leant closer.

'You work in a bar. And I might be trashed, but I am thinking straight enough for you kiss me without remorse,’ I breathed smoke into his face.

Hotspur's face screwed up in disgust and he threw my wrist to the side. 'Forget it,’ he spat.

'You didn't laugh at my pun,’ I groaned, 'it's not true, but it’s still funny.'

'What? That you're not straight? It's in terrible context.' Hotspur started to turn away, but I wasn't done with him yet. I grasped his shoulder. 'Hotspur-'

'What?'

I leant up and kissed him. I worried for half a second, but Hotspur responded, pressing his tongue against mine, muscles tensed when they fought for dominance, tasting like beer and burgers and cigarette smoke. He wrapped his left hand around the back of my neck, his other arm slung over my shoulder, still cradling the cigarette between two fingers. I placed a hand on Hotspur's waist and pushed him away so we could breathe without each other for a moment.

If he was enough to get me intoxicated, I would kiss him for hours every night instead of a bottle.

'You really aren't thinking straight,’ Hotspur said with a tantalising wink and smirk. 'Let's get you home.'

He walked me home. Some people didn’t do that, they put you in a cab and slapped it twice. He even took my phone, typed his number in and told me to text. Kissed me on the corner of my mouth. 


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment to this little writing project. All typos are my own because this is unedited. Thanks again to Alli for convincing me to write this.

I was sitting at my desk, staring at the eastern horizon when my phone rang. I picked it up and studied the number. I refused to put a contact name on this one, but I had memorised this when I was four. Just for fun, just because I could. Also, because my father wanted me to know our home phone in case I ever got lost. It would be a shame to just _lose_ an heir.

I sighed and picked up. 'Hello?' I refused to acknowledge that I knew it was him.

'Harry, it's me,' he replied.

'Yes,' I responded.

A girl was riding her bike down my street.

'I have an offer for you at my company. A place for you to start so you can start managing it when I retire.' He spoke about this like it was a fact. Without excitement. Without anticipation. Fact. Non-fiction. Almost like an order, a request.

'That sounds promising, I will take it,' I said. I would have to leave.

A breeze twisted through the trees, rippled the water in a bird bath across the road.

'Excellent. I would rather send you details via email than explain everything now. I will do that.' He paused. Or maybe I paused. Either way, the conversation lapsed.

'I haven't heard from you in a few months, what have you been entertaining yourself with?' He asked.

'Oh, just making friends,' I replied. I looked down at the wood pattern of my desk. I could see the bar. Hotspur's bedroom carpet as we conversed as drunks. Sharing cigarettes and kisses. Pillows and beds. Him in my favourite shirt, in my jeans, in my socks as he scrambled eggs and poured juice.

'You do have an impressive record for doing so and I think this position will cater to those skills,' my father said. A fact.

'Wonderful,' I said and then, 'I have to go, a friends birthday, thank you for the offer, I look forward to your email.'

'Goodbye, Hal', he finished and hung up.

I looked back up at the horizon. Hotspur was the ocean and I was surrounded by his depth, by the vast complexities that make him. I had gone further than I intended. My chest tightened. Like I reflex, I started swimming to shore.

\+ + + 

Hotspur rang three times in a week. My phone was on vibrate, so I answered everyone but him and when 'Hotspur' made an appearance on the screen, I watched my device vibrate its way around my desk. The last time he rang it vibrated itself onto the carpet where it buzzed once more and went silent.

I did not leave my apartment much. I had not realised how accustomed I had become to Hotspur's presence in my life. Some nights I would wait outside the bar when his shift finished and walk him home or he would turn up at my door, smelling like beer and spirits, wanting a distraction because he had a trying night. I could fill the daylight hours, but when the sun set I could not distinguish my surroundings without him.

My father emailed me about the position in his company. I started spending the dark hours filling out HR forms and sending them though to my father's secretary. I went to an interview where I discussed the position with a panel and was evaluated based on my current training. This included my father pulling CEO strings, bringing me closer to his dreams.

It was a singular week in my life, but I grew despondent in the face of it. I pushed that aside. The only way to create _my_ dreams was to follow as my father did. 

\+ + +

One midnight I was still up, scrolling through my Facebook feed with the aim of distracting myself and just having _something_ going on in front of my eyes. Something to do just because I was conscious.

Someone knocked on my door. A familiar tone of knock. I stared at it and took a few breaths. He knocked again. I got up.

I opened the door. Hotspur stood in the hall, his countenance was an amalgamation of despondency and anger. 'So you're alive,' was all he said.

I nodded, unable to quite talk. He was correct in his anger. I stepped to the side and he came in. I shut the door and watched him turn to me.

'What happened? You just fell off the grid, I know what it means when people say they'll call and don't. I know what it means when someone doesn't _answer three_ calls and you see them waiting for a cab a few hours later. What _happened_ , Hal?'

'You weren't meant to happen, you're not part of my plan,' I said, trying to stay calm, though my breaths were leaving me for dead. And I realised that was not very tactful and he was going to explode in three, two, one-

'Your "plan"?' Hotspur asked, throwing his hands up with the air quotes.

'Yes! We were supposed to fool around for a week or two, say 'wasn't that nice' and then move on, catch each other's eye at the bar on occasion. I never intended to fall in love with you.' My voice remained calm, even. My head knew how to level this out and my mouth was happy to co-operate.

We stared each other down.

'Well you did and likewise and now look at it.' He gestured between us.

I shook my head. He took a step closer. I said, 'You can walk away, I know it's too much, it's too much for me.'

'What would you do?'

'Listen to Taylor Swift on repeat until I feel cocky enough to leave the house.' I laughed to change the mood, to take away the sensation of my intestines tying themselves together.

He smiled, 'Hal-'

We met with open mouths. It was disgusting and desperate and I refused to feel apologetic when I mashed my face against Hotspur's, trying to bite his tongue and settling for licking his teeth like a gross, clueless thirteen-year-old.

Hotspur pulled away, swiping away my saliva with his sleeve. 'God, you're a minx.'

'And you're lean like a lynx,' I sang in his face, tightening my fingers in his shirt.

'What?' Hotspur's face scrunched up, incredulous.

'From _Cats_.' I replied, mirroring his stupid face.

'You really are gay.'

'So are you,' I scoffed.

'This isn’t the point.'

'No.' I relinquished his shirt. 'That is that though.'

\+ + +

'Stop worrying and come to bed,' murmured Hotspur.

Hotspur, already under the blankets, turned and watched me watching him. He sighed and pulled up the covers. I joined him with a little hesitance, annoyed to give myself away so easy, but comforted that he would know why tomorrow morning. He pulled me in and I slung an arm around his waist, guiding his head onto my arm. I kissed him on the forehead.

I had two distinct thoughts: _I could get used to this_ and _I am used to this_.

'Are you trashed again?' Hotspur whispered, wondering why I was being so fussy tonight.

'No. Just go to sleep,' I replied. I pressed my lips to Hotspur's forehead again, but this time, I left them there, pulling him in closer, breathing in his skin.

I counted the minutes on the clock until Hotspur feel asleep, his breathing lessened and his grip on me loosened. I worked my arm out from underneath his head, sliding myself out of the blankets and tucking him back in, praying with every breath that the other wouldn’t wake. I was sure he wouldn't, Hotspur was a heavy sleeper, all the short-temperedness tired him out. I watched him for a few seconds as he shifted in his sleep and settled again.

I pulled on my shirt and jeans, located all of my things - everything I'd brought today and everything I'd left in his drawers for months - and filled my backpack in a haphazard manner. I checked on Hotspur every few seconds to make sure he was asleep; he kept twitching and shifting.

I zipped my backpack and paused for moment. I told myself this was the last time. I looked at him an stored the memory of this last moment. I itched for a stay. Just for a second. But the need to leave, to fulfil the plans I had laid so carefully was more powerful than to stay with a distraction.

Even though I so loved being distracted.

 

_We're looking up at the same night sky_

_And keep pretending the sun will not rise_

_Be together for one more night_

_Somewhere, somehow._

**Author's Note:**

> If, for some reason, you would like to see more of me, you can follow [my tumblr](http://blxetack.tumblr.com/)


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